Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 October 1898 — A FATAL WEDDING ! [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FATAL WEDDING !

By Lottie Bracham.

CHAPTER I. The night was calm, clear and beautiful; the moonlight pouring down in one unclouded and unbroken stream was turning Lanchester into a city of silver. Grimy And grim and dirty and sooty it might be toy day, with its noisy machinery, and ereat busy working hives, bi\t now night’s gentle fingers had touched it wjth the silver wand they held, and, lo! the noise, <md dirt, and smoke had vanished, dud beauty and tranquility reigned! Somewhat out of harmony with the fair pure light was the blaze of gas lighting up the entrance to the principal theater of the city, from which a crowded audience was pouring out into the moonlit streets.

Bound the stage door a group of half a dozen “supers” were lounging, talking of the play and the crowded house, and venturing the prediction that Mr. Morris would “make a good thing of it” this tour. But their voices ceased suddehly as a tall young man came hastily out of the door round which they were gathered, and, with a hurried and general "Good-night,” passed rapidly down the street, , “That is Mr. Robson,” remarked one of the loiterers, as he glanced after the tall, slight figure striding away so swiftly. “Mrs. Orde sent to beg him to go to her as soon as the play was over; she’s dying, the messenger said.” “Dying? You don’t mean that!” exclaimed another, in a tone of shocked surprise. “Why, she acted last night!” “And broke a blood vessel after the last act, just as the curtain fell,” said the first speaker, shaking his head gloomily, “She will never act again—you may take my word for that!” Stella Orde would never act again, the man had said; and the words were true. It needed no experience to tell that to Mark Robson, as he entered the where she lay, in answer to a summons which had been sent to him at the theater —a summons which surprised him not a little, for their friendship was but of a few weeks’ standing. “She has been wearying for you sadly, sir,” the landlady said, as she opened the door for him; “and she won’t last out the night.” He followed her up a narrow carpeted staircase to the first floor, and into a sitting room separated from the adjoining Apartment by folding doors. “Wait here for a moment," she said; And the young man waited in the sitting room, while she passed into the bedroom. After a minute or two the landlady came out again. “She seems hardly conscious, sir,” she ■aid, huskily. “Will you wait a little while, or will you call again?” “Perhaps I had better wait,” he an•wered, hesitatingly. “There might not be time ” “It would be best. The nurse is with her. She will call you, if you will wait here.”

To Mark Robson there was a strange, dream-like unreality about the whole **wjene. Among her fellow actors and actresses Stella Orde had many older friends who would have made any sacrifice to aoothe her dying hours; but in this her - extremity she had sent for him, who was •oeemparatively a stranger—a young man, ■"too, hardly more than a lad, for all his tall atature and budding mustache. It was rery strange, unspeakably strange! j After awhile, he moved from his seat, and, going to the window, drew back the curtains and looked out into the quiet street. Suddenly, shrill and distinct, n call rose on the stillness, a name spoken in a tone of agonised entreaty, which made the young actor start back with a pale and startled face and an expression of surprise and something like terror in bis eyes. He listened iutently for a moment; but the word was not repented; and, with a trembling hand, he pushed his thick dark hair back from his forehead. ■“I must have been mistaken,” he muttered. “How absurd! 1 thought she said — — Pshaw! Ah, the excitement of the past few days has upset me! This room ia stifling!” he went on. “I wonder If I might open the window for n moment?” He moved nearer to the window, then •topped short with the same startled look l»f terror on his face, for once more the cry was repeated, and, for all its faintaess, the voice reached his ears. “Newell —oh, Newell!” it said. A moment's hesitation, as If he were oncertain what was best to be done, and the young man, with a hurried, noiseless •tep, crossed the room, and, passing through the open doors, stood just within them, grave and silent. The nurse, sitting by the bedside, glanced up at him and put her finger to her lips to enforce silence; and he inclined his head mechanically as his eyes rested on the little white bed. To the last day of his life Mark Robson •rill never forget the two faces which lay side by side on the pillows—one that ■of a child, who was sleeping softly und *weetly in the dreamless sleep of childhood. with flushed cheeks and parted scarlet lips, and short, rutiled, dark curls; the other that of u woman, sleeping, too, but In no untroubled slumber, for the golden hair lay damp on the white forehead, while the restless movements and flutterlags spoke plainly of fever and unrest. “Did she speak?" Mark whispered. “Yes, in her sleep,” the nurse answered •softly. “She wanders, poor soul. Oh, •be is waking now!” Slowly the reddened eyelids were raised, and two blue eyes, bright with n •Orange, feverish brightness, stared •straight at Mark's tall figure standing near the open doorway. For a moment •he seemed not to recognise him, and a look, half of surprise, half of fear, crept Into her eyes; but It was succeeded almost Immediately by a faint gleam of recognition. “Mr. Robson!” she said, faintly. “You Imre come—at last! Come near me—sit •town.” the sick woman went on hurriedly; and Uck obeyed, drawing hla chair

close to the bedside, for the feverish voice was low and feeble, for all its eagerness. The nurse at a look left the room. “Am I right to trust you?” asked Mrs. Orde. “Will you be true to me, I wonder? Once before I trusted a face like yours, and it betrayed me; land yet—and— yet—it is because/you resemble him that I am going to trust you now!” A faint flush stole into the young man’s face. “You may trust me,” he answered, steadily; “I will not betray you.” “So he said,” she commented, with A faint, bitter smile. “So he said! I am so lonely I There is no one else —and lam dying. .1 think —I know —that yon would not betray me; and I cannot die and leave her alone and friendless in such a cruel world as this. Will you take my little one?” she went on pitifully. “Will you take care of her? —unless —perhaps for my husband’s sake —his relatives might; and yet she is not ” Her) voice failed from very weakness, and sfie sank back henvily against the pillows; but the intense eagerness never faded from her blue eyes, and she made one or two futile efforts to speak. Mark’s call for assistance brought the nurse hurriedly into the room; and, hastily snatching up a restorative which stood ready, she held it to the colorless lips and raised the frail form on her arm. In a moment Mrs. Qrde spoke again. “There is so little time,” she said, supported against the nurse’s shoulder as she went on brokenly and feebly. “My name is not Orde, my husband deserted me a month before my child was born. He had been cruel and false to me. I was his lawful wife.” She raised herself in her eagerness, apd put one frail, burning hand among the folds of linen at her breast. “I have it hero," she continued. “I was only an actress, and he —was a lord’s son; but we were married; and, when our child •was DOrn', I registered her as his and ' mine. It was the only time I spoke his name after he left me. Our child —our little child!” “Do you want me to take care of your child?” the young fellow asked, “or to write to your husband’s people about her?” “YY’rite,” she answered faintly. “They are’rich, and I was his?wife. You will find my marriage lines. He left me; but I worked hard for the - “child, and I was happier. I forgave, 1 loved him—so T must needs forgive—And they may be kind to her for his sake—my little Barbara, my little lonely child!” “She is dying, sir,” the nurse whispered, glancing for a moment at Mark Robson’s face, and although she had meant the look to be but a momentary one, she did not at once remove her eyes from him. The changed, almost haggard face was very different from the boyish, handsome countenance which had met her gaze when the young actor had entered the room. Suddenly, breaking in upon the stillness of the night, the clock in the neighboring church tower struck the hour of midnight; and, as the last stroke rank out upon the frosty air, Stella Orde raised her languid eyelids. “No one ever knew,” she muttered. “He made me promise not to tell, and I kept my word; but—he is dead, and it does not matter now if all the world knows. And it is for Barbara’s sake that I speak. They may be kind to her because —I was his wife —his wife—Newell Hatton’s wife!” For an instant a flash of terror gleamed in the wild, dilated eyes, as if her own words startled her; then the eyelids drooped again, and her head fell back. Her eyes grew dim, a shiver ran through the slender form, and through her parched lips the last breath quivered in a deepdrawn sigh. The short, sorrowful fife was over; the actress who had loved and suffered had passed away from all earthly pain and from all earthly love. The nurse laid her softly and reverently back on the pillows; and, as she took the pale hands to fold them over the pulseless heart, she found betwoeu the stiffening fingers a folded paper. "This is what she meant to give you,” ahe whispered, removing it from the lifeless grasp and handing it to the young man. With trembling fingers Murk Robson opened the folded paper. It was the certificate of a marriage solemnized in the church of Notley, in Kent, between the Honorable Newell Hatton, second son of the fourth Earl of Elsdale, and Stella Orde, daughter of Edward Crosby, and ns he read the lines, Mark Robson’s face \ffcs as pale as that of the woman whose death-bed ho had just left, of the actress who had played her.last part on the stage of life, on whom the curtain had fallen never to rise again.

CHAPTER 11. “Mark Robson, a member of the dramatic profession, who in the year 1867 had some correspondence with Messrs. Francis & Turnbull, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn, is eurncstly requested to communicate with them immediately on a matter of great- importance to the person in whose interest he applied to them on the previous occasion." "Robson, Robson, where are you, old fellow? Some one is advertising for you. There is a fortuue left you, or you are required as a witness, or some fine lady has fallen in love with you! Robson, I say! Where is lie?” And the speaker, a round-faeod, clean-shaven young fellow of two or throo-nnd-tweuty, peered in n rather short-sighted manner übout the dusty stage and dingy wings of the Theater Royal, Houthborough. “Mr. ILdmon is not hero,” said n pretty, slender, pale-faced girl, looking up from u play-book which she was studying with deep attention. “What do you want with him? What are you making such a noise about?” “Was 1 making a noise? Here is Robson advertised for, and ns tlie paper is ten days old, It seems very likely that he lias not seen it yet.” "Advertised for?" Miss Clifford repented, with a gleam of interest in her dark eyes. “Really? 1 wonder what they want with him?" “What about Robson?” asked the stage manager, a gray-haired man, coming up at tbnt moment, with a smile upon his kindly face. "Here is an advertisement which, if I am not much mistaken, relates to him," replied young Vincent. "I will ask Utn if be has seen It," the

manager replied. “This paper is quite an old one, you see. It is hardly likely that this has escaped his notice.” Mr. Vincent sauntered down the stage to the footlights, his hands in his pockets, his little twinkling eyes very thoughtful, and a trifle wistful, too, when he recalled all he owed, to Mark Robson since he joined Mr. Mbrris’ company, not only for kindness and consideration, but for real help in his profession. Outside, the pleasant, warm May sun poured down its genial rays upon the town; the sea, one waveless mass of blue, glittered brilliantly in the golden light illuminating its broad expanse; children were chasing each other over the sands; boys and girls were selling sweet, fresh bunches of primroses and violets; pretty girls, taking their morning constitutional' on the Parade, had donned their freshest and brightest gowns. One of them, a brunette, had fastened a bunch of primroses coquettlshly against her dusky throat; and a man clad in a suit of gray tweed, walking down the Parade, half turned to look at her, then, with a smile and a frown at his “folly,” resumed his walk, turning his back on the blue sunlit 1 sea as he went up a side street leading to the theater. v The rehearsal bell was ringing as he reached the portico of the theater,'and he hurried on to the stage, to find the company all assembled, and Mr. Morris looking just a little anxious and ill at ease. But one glance at the young man’s face showed the stage manager that tt was calm and serene as usual, and that, if the advertisement had met his gaze, it had caused him no uneasiness. At last the rehearsal came to an end, and, with a sigh of relief, Mrj Morris closed his trook. When the company had dispersed, he walked over to Mark Robson and, with a kindly pressure, laid his hand on his shoulder. “Can you spare me a few minutes?” he said. “I'should like to speak to you, Mnrk.” They went out together into the sunshine, the young actor suiting his step to the slower pace of his companion, as they walked silently down the Parade, which was deserted just now, it being the hour of the midday meal. 4 “Let us go tp your rooms, Mark,*’ said Morris. “My head aches a little, and th#sun does not improve H.” They turned off the parade into the quiel side street where Mark Robson occupied rooms on the ground floor of a pretty bay-windowed cottage, and walked on in silence until they entered the sitting room. It was very plainly, almost shabbily furnished; but conspicuous on the wooden mantelpiece was a cabinet photograph of a child, a dark-eyed girl, shrined in an exquisitely chased silver frame, which looked strange and incongruous in the simple, shabby room. “Have you seen the Times lately?” asked Morris abruptly. “I suppose you are the only Mark Robson bn the boards?” “I believe so. Is there any mention of another? Has the Times condescended to take any notice of such an obscure personage as myself?” Morris took the paper from the pocket of the light overcoat he wore, and passed it across the table to his friend, who took it with a rather puzzled expression. “You will find it in the second column.” .Mr. Morris added carelessly, then turned away to the window, heedless of the downdrawn blind. Outside the sun shone brightly, and the merry laughter of the children at play resounded along the beach; but within Mark Robson’s room the silence remained unbroken for so long that, startled and alarmed, Mr. Mqrris turned from the window, and looked anxiously at his friend. Mark’s face was colorless, his eyes staring straight before him with a strange, vacant gaze. “Mark,” said Morris at length—" Mark, old fellow!” The young fellow started violently at the touch of the somewhnt unsteady hand laid so lightly on his shoulder. “It relates to you?” queried the manager, touching the newspaper with his hand. “Do not answer me if you prefer not, Mark. Perhaps it was wrong of me to show it to you,” he went on, “but I did it for the best.” A faint smile flickered over Mark’s pale face. “You did right," he responded, rather iuskily. “Yes, it relates to me. of course.” “And to hes?” Morris asked; and a spasm of fierce pain contracted Mark Robson’s face as he replied in a voice like that of a man in keen bodily agony: “And to her.”

CHAPTER 111. Somber and even dingy as were the offices occupied by Messrs. Francis & Tufnbull, solicitors, of Lincoln's Inn, they yet wore an air of intense respectability which does not always accompany brilliance and plate glass and gilding. Others might come and others might go. but the name of Francis & Turnbull remained on their brass plate by the door. A curious old-fashioned brass plate it was, and Mark Robson, going up the stone steps leading to the hall door, glanced at it with a familiar glance, ns if nt some time or another he had seen it before. A clerk In the outer office lmd just drawn down one of the green blinds to •shut out the sunshine, when he was accosted by a quiet voice nsking for Mr. Francis, and requesting an interview with that gentleman. “It is impossible!" the clerk declared coolly. "Mr. Francis receives no one without an appointment. Mr. Turnbull sometimes makes an exception when the business is very important, but Mr. Francis never.” “I do not wish to see Mr. Turnbull,” the actor said hastily, changing colpr slightly, ns if the idea were unpleasant to him. business is with Mr. Francis, and it is important. If you will take my card,to him, and say that I am here, you will spare me some delay and yourself some trouble,” Mark added haughtily. The clerk took the card, and, shrugging his shoulders, left the office with it. In a few minutes the clerk returned, surprise plainly visible on his countenance. “Mr. Francis will see you. sir,” he said. "Re good enough to step this way." He led the way out of the office upstairs to the first floor of the quaiut old house, and, when they reached the landing, was nbout to knock at one of the doors opening upon it, when Mark stopped him suddenly. “One moment," he said, in a somewhat agitated tone; “Mr. Francis is alone, I presume? My business is strictly private.” “His secretary Is with him," the young man answered, looking curiously nt Mark. "YOO are aware, I suppose, that Mr. Francis is Hind."

“Yes —oh, yes! But his secretary—is ha an old servant of the firm, or ” “Mr. James Franeis is his father’s secretary, sir.” “Mr. James Francis?” repeated Mark, I standing for a moment with an expression of deep and painful thought upon his brow; then he raised his head, and, meeting the other’s inquiring look, said, with a slight smile, “I was wondering if I had had any previous acquaintance with Mr, James Francis; but he is, I believe, a stranger to me and Ito him. lam ready now, if you please.” The room into which the clerk ushered Mark Robson was a large apartment well lighted. The occupants of the room were two. One, a tall, white-haired gentleman, dressed with extreme punctiliousness, but in an old-fakhioned style, stood leaning against the mantelpiece. The other was seated before one of the tables, and his loose tweed suit and open collar were as different from his father’s scrupulously buttoned broadcloth as his short, rather stout figure and round, pleasant fact were from the old lawyer’s severely regular features and dignified appearance. But it wsfs at the younger man that Mark Rodson looked first with a sharp, searching look, and, when he averted his gray eyes, it was with a faint, quickly stifled sigh of relief. “Mr. Robson?” the old lawyer said, looking toward the spot where Mark stood. Mark bowed. The old man walked away quietly from the fire and sat down at the table, moving easily and fearlessly, and evidently quite aware of the place which Mark, who had seated himself, occupied in the room. “I have been hoping and expecting to hear from you, Mr. Robson,” he said in a quiet, pleasant voice, “but I was beginning to fear that my advertisement would be fruitless.” “I saw it only this morning,” Mark responded. “You have lost no time, then.” “We provincial actors do not indulge in the luxury of the Times,” Robson returned, with a slight laugh; “and I venture to hope that, after a lapse of ten years, the delay of ten short days wiH not be of any material consequence.” The old lawyer's thin lips closed more firmly. \ ,(To be continued.)